Down
by Lauand
Summary: Schuldig hates reminders.


**Title:** Down

**Author:** Lauand

**Beta:** Bookofnicodemus

**Rating:** PG-13

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**Summary:** Schuldig hates reminders.

**A/N:** Books, I worship you.

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**DOWN**

Strangely enough, Schuldig didn't like movies in which the main character was tortured. Most of the time, the hero resisted the questioning stoically and bravely and the evil torturers (communists, for sure) extracted no word from him.

In Schuldig's not so humble opinion, Hollywood didn't know shit.

The noble hero wouldn't last one week in Rosenkreuz. Schuldig himself hadn't lasted two and he had been really hard to break. But broken he had. Because strength of spirit, iron will or wild nature had nothing to do with Rosenkreuz.

Schuldig was still bitter about it, and it always put him in a horrid mood when he was reminded of that time and that place. It was for that reason that he hated Steven Seagal. For that, and for sucking as an actor.

And thus, after finishing his shift, he grabbed his green coat and went to the most crowded bar he could find to get shit-faced. There was a threshold of pressing minds that, once surpassed, made half of the voices nullify the other half so that his telepathy was left in peace and he could be so surrounded by people that he could consider himself truly alone.

His was a world of contradictions.

Schuldig was ordering his fifth Bloody Mary when a tall man took a seat by his stool. The redhead wasn't surprised. If anything, he wondered why this hadn't happened sooner.

"What's wrong."

Crawford had a way of asking that didn't quite sound like a question. He kind of stated, instead of inquiring. Crawford was weird like that.

Schuldig gulped down a third of his newly served drink and licked his lips before replying.

"You have to ask? Don't you know it all?"

He then drank again, ignoring his leader, who calmly sat by his side.

"Maybe I don't," even loud as the music was, Crawford's even voice was perfectly audible for the German. Maybe years of fucking each other had gotten them attuned or something. Maybe it was just Schuldig's telepathy at work. Who knew. "Maybe I do and I'm trying to get you to say it aloud."

Schuldig mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like 'fucker' and finished his drink. He then signaled the bartender for another one.

Crawford didn't insist. He wasn't used to pressing matters. He just waited in silence. The calm and the cold blood that the American projected was enough to make it impossible to ignore his presence and forget his orders. Not for long, anyhow.

"Takatori was watching TV."

Another man would have said something at that, but Crawford didn't. The sixth Bloody Mary arrived and Schuldig drank again.

"I don't know which movie. 'Rambo' or something. I don't fucking care."

The next time he set the glass on the bar, it was half empty. Normal people didn't get depressed watching 'Rambo'. But, again, Schuldig wasn't normal. And Crawford knew. Crawford always knew. And maybe, just maybe, he even understood.

So, when Schuldig tried to bring his sixth Bloody Mary to his lips again, the Oracle's hand grasped his wrist. For the first time that evening, Schuldig stared at him. And scowled.

The American then did something completely unexpected. Without removing his hand from the telepath's wrist, he drew close and, in the middle of the fucking bar, he kissed him. On the mouth. Half drunk as he was, Schuldig didn't know how to react. Crawford had never, ever, under any circumstance kissed him in public. Not even in front of Nagi or Farfarello. Crawford's tongue asked for entrance and Schuldig obligingly parted his lips and gave himself completely to the kiss. It was familiar, Crawford's mouth against his. Safe. And it felt good.

Schuldig released his grip on the glass and buried his free hand in Crawford's black hair, savouring the astonished thoughts of the bartender and the people nearby, flabbergasted at seeing two men devouring each other in front of them, nearly as much as he savoured Crawford himself.

The Oracle, though, knew him well enough to acknowledge his tendency to get carried away, so he didn't relinquish his hold on the redhead's wrist. When the kiss became too heated and the next stage would be standing up and groping each other shamelessly, Crawford pulled away.

Schuldig followed the precog's mouth, but Crawford pushed him gently away after a brief nibbling of lips.

"You know," the Oracle stated with a faint smirk, "I hate when you press my glasses against my face when we kiss. They always get dirty."

It was such an out of character thing to say, that Schuldig couldn't help but laugh. Then, Crawford became Crawford again.

"Wipe their minds." Business-like and serious, the precog stood up. "And make them close their mouths, while you're at it."

Schuldig smirked. He felt like himself again.

"Don't be too late."

With that last order, Crawford walked away.

Schuldig didn't try to avoid shamelessly admiring the Oracle's elegant gait. Even in a crowded bar, Crawford managed to make the rest of the people look like they were the ones out of place, and not him.

When Schwarz's leader was finally out of sight, Schuldig turned to the bartender and grinned.

"My man kicks ass, eh?"

Not waiting for an answer from the poor man, Schuldig did what he was told and erased the encounter from everybody's minds. A pity, really. Now Nagi would never believe him. Not that he would have, anyway…

Gulping down the rest of his sixth Bloody Mary, Schuldig grabbed his green coat and went out of the bar. Once in the streets, he licked and nipped at his bottom lip and, smirking, he started on his way home.

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End file.
